


It Wasn't Shaved!

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hair, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't shaved, not really. But Greg doesn't keep his hair short anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't Shaved!

**Author's Note:**

> Written in about 4 hours total, to the prompt **I (don't) shave for Sherlock" (or variations thereof)**.
> 
> I own nobody, and nothing. No beta, no britpick.

Greg stood up and arched his back, stretching life back into his spine. Someday, he thought, the body would be laid out in a manner that didn’t require crouching, kneeling or, memorably, actually hanging out over the edge of a rowboat so as not to upset a group of pool floats haphazardly duct taped together. With a groan, he rolled his shoulders and ran his hands over his damp hair. The body itself was under an E-Z Up, but the surrounding alley was too big to tarp and he’d gotten properly wet while examining it. A quick riffle of his fingers sent cold drops running down his neck and he winced. 

“Ought to go back to shaving it.” Sally smirked, tucking an errant curl under the tyvek beanie she’d appropriated from the forensics team. 

“It wasn’t shaved. Shaved means down to the skin.”

“Used a shaver to cut it, didn’t you?” 

“Trimmer. It’s called a trimmer.”

“Whatever. Why’d you give it up? Easy care, quick dry, and it’s not like it didn’t suit you.” He knew his hair had been the focus of intense speculation, coppers being worse gossips than mature landladies. He cursed himself for not having an answer prepared. Before he could extemporize, one of the techs called them over to examine the recycling skip, and the subject was dropped.

~~**~~

The real answer, of course, was that Greg had stopped ‘shaving’ for Sherlock Holmes. Within a few days of his return, Sherlock had made his opinion of Greg’s new style quite clear. That he had done so while naked and aroused, with Greg kneeling before him…well, Sherlock, right? Never one to preserve a moment for the sake of romance. A scant minute into Greg’s “welcome home” gift, Sherlock had removed his hands from Greg’s head, pulled his cock from between Greg’s lips, and batted him away.

“No. No. No, no, no. That’s horrible.” Long fingers had scrubbed over pale thighs, twitching and flexing in agitation.

“Sherlock?” Greg forced himself calm. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m rusty. I’ve not…there hasn’t been…I mean, you were gone a long time.” And he’d be damned if he was going back to practicing on bananas. 

“What? No. No, it isn’t your skill level. That’s adequate.” Sherlock spoke distractedly, brushing his fingers together.

“Adequate.” 

“No. I didn’t mean adequate.” One hand flapped dismissively.

“No? What did you mean then, when you said ‘adequate’?” A bit of strain had carried through in Greg’s voice. A man could take only so much.

“Oh, for God’s sake. It’s not your technique. It’s your hair. It’s not how I remember it. Do you have any idea how awful it feels right now?”

The light dawned. Sherlock had never been a passive recipient, whether pressed back against the door or spread out across a mattress. No, those long fingers would push through Greg’s hair, tangling and pulling in time with the gasps and moans that spilled from those beautiful lips. Greg always knew when Sherlock’s climax was nearly on him, not from his cock hardening and his balls pulling tight but because his fingers would cease their twisting and tugging, instead sliding through the silvered strands and cradling his head as Sherlock’s body went rigid above him. With Greg’s hair shorn close to his scalp, there had been nothing for Sherlock to get hold of. Clearly, he found the scruff that remained unpleasant to touch.

“How long until it grows back?” Sherlock had absently offered Greg a hand up from the floor before pulling his dressing gown closed and tying it securely.

“Hm. Couple months, maybe.”

“Right. Well, I can live with that.”

Contrary to what Lestrade had believed, that hadn’t meant Sherlock could live with doing things other than blow jobs, oh no. Of course not. Three months of abstinence didn’t sound like much in comparison with two years. But those two years had been spent believing Sherlock was beyond his reach. Greg had never quite bought the whole ‘dead’ thing; there’d been too many loose bits rattling about for that to sit easily. But even if he hadn’t be dead, he’d certainly not been present. There’d been no tall figure fluffing his hair, or swirling that damn coat or strutting around in button-popping shirts. No baritone voice making demands down the phone. In short, none of the agonizing temptation that tormented him on a near daily basis.

Every so often over the course of the next months, he’d made a point of running his fingers through the growth and quirking an eyebrow at the consulting detective. The results had varied from a vigorous head-shake to a grimace of distaste to an inquiry about head-lice. Today though. Today he’d had to tame his hair back with a bit of the left-over product in his bathroom. Today the damp and wet had clung, even after they’d left the scene. Glancing furtively around the bullpen, he popped the cord and let the blinds on his office window slither shut. It wouldn’t do, really it wouldn’t, to be caught sending selfies to his boyfriend. To have witnesses to him impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting for a response. 

Come to Baker Street after work. -SH

It was a good thing he’d closed the blinds. One look at his smug grin, and everyone would know what was up.

~~**~~

He skipped the bell in favor of using the emergency key John had given him so long ago, and took the stairs two at a time. Sherlock’s voice sounded from the other side of the door before he could knock, saying “Come in, Greg, it’s unlocked.”

He stopped dead just a few feet inside the flat, his hand dropping to his side and letting the door swing shut. Sherlock had turned out all the lights in the flat but the reading lamp by his chair, which had been adjusted for the most dramatic illumination of porcelain skin. Miles and miles of porcelain skin, sprawled out in the chrome and leather chair, draped artfully in a peacock blue dressing gown that concealed exactly nothing. One hand was tucked behind his head, the other dragging a single digit slowly up and down along a blatant erection. Half-lidded eyes met Greg’s, and the wicked man dared to quirk a smug grin. “I do believe I’ve shocked you.”

“No. I’m not. Shocked.” He had to stop, swallow the saliva that was pooling in his mouth. “God, Sherlock.” 

“You’re overdressed, Detective Inspector.” On the next upstroke, he allowed the tip of his finger to trail further, circling his navel and descending again. The faint pinking of his cheeks belied the steadiness of his voice. 

Greg kicked off his shoes and dropped his jacket to the floor simultaneously. His fingers flew over his belt buckle, button, zip. Then he simply let everything slide down his legs as he walked out of his clothing and toward the man so delightfully displayed for him. 

“Shirt, socks.” Sherlock reminded him, letting his hand slip higher still, arching his neck to stroke lightly over collarbones and throat. “Do hurry, Greg. I’ve been waiting, and imagining your mouth where my fingers are.” The tip of his tongue peeked out, wet those plush lips. The slow stroking continued, running back down to tease around just the tip of Sherlock’s cock.

Greg’s hands raced over the placket of his shirt, wrenched it away where he’d forgotten to undo the cuffs. The socks he rolled down, peeled away, and let fall wherever they might. Three more steps and he was kneeling reverently before his lover. His hands were dark against the ivory flesh of Sherlock’s thighs, pressing them open and sliding up to rub his thumbs into the crease of his groin. Sherlock’s wandering hand fell to his side, fingers fluttering open and closed before curling into acceptance of however Greg chose to proceed. Greg flexed his own fingers, stroking from navel to crease. Really, this deserved to be done slowly but he wasn’t sure he had the. strength of will. Seeing Sherlock like this, ready and wanting and all his, it made him want to take and take and take. To devour the miracle that was this brilliant and gorgeous man, to consume him and mark him and own him. To hell with slow. Greg wet his lips, wrapped his fingers around the solid length of Sherlock’s cock, and guided him in. Three quick slides up and down, a swipe of Greg’s tongue over the damp slit, and Sherlock’s hands were in his hair. 

“Greg. Greg. Greg.” Long fingers clenched and released in time with his chanting, supporting but never driving his movement. Greg reached up with one hand and lightly flicked the tight peak of Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock groaned, goosebumps racing over his arms and legs. Greg slowed his pace, swirled his tongue around Sherlock’s head and dropped his hand down to cup Sherlock’s balls. Sherlock was panting now, his hips working in shallow thrusts against Greg’s mouth, and Greg quickened his pace again. When he hollowed his cheeks, Sherlock began to tug at his hair and moan incoherently. Two years; this wasn’t going to last much longer. Greg slipped his hand down and grasped his own erection, stroked it quickly and felt his own orgasm spiraling rapidly closer. He hummed around Sherlock’s cock and there it was. Sherlock’s palms holding his head still while his body snapped tight and his orgasm spilled across Greg’s tongue. There was no shouting, no crying Greg’s name to the heavens, only a strangled and desperate moan followed by gasping breaths, but it was enough to push Greg over the edge. He tried but mostly failed to catch the mess in his palm, instead splashing it liberally across the folds of blue silk that were tangling around Sherlock’s calves. 

They stayed there for a few minutes, Greg’s head resting on Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock stroking through Greg’s hair. Once they’d caught their breath they adjourned, with a quick clean-up detour, to Sherlock’s bed. There, with his head resting against a lean shoulder and Sherlock’s fingers again combing through his hair, Greg knew his days of close shorn hair were over. Truly, he was done with buzz cuts and trimmers. All for Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
